


Hips Don't Lie

by Kinematic



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, I'm Sorry, M/M, Sexual References, totally ridiculous premise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:29:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kinematic/pseuds/Kinematic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is a very talented hula-hooper. Grantaire finds it very obscene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hips Don't Lie

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the ridiculousness of this concept and its execution. Also, this is one of my first fanfics, so please be gentle with me, hehe.

Normally, Grantaire would not be caught dead at a _fundraiser_. They are, after all, utilized by little league baseball teams (digusting) and Girl Scouts (despicable), both of which can and will harass you in front of every supermarket on the planet. The baseball teams, at least, don’t try to swindle you with Thin Mints at four dollars a box. (The cookies are damn good though, so Grantaire surrenders the money and watches as the little girls’ pleasant faces dissolve in to ones of satanic glee.)

Regardless of the opportunity to obtain delicious cookies (and to encourage the spawn of demonic children with every box), fundraisers are lame. Except, Grantaire convinces himself, this one, of course. Because Enjolras is running it, and Enjolras could puke on the grimy sidewalk and Grantaire would still call it a work of art. And Grantaire is sometimes an artist, so he would know these things.

However, when he first heard about the event at the Musain two months ago, he couldn’t help but scoff. What good could the fundraiser _really_ do? The only redeeming quality for Grantaire is that it is carnival themed—there would be rides, games,  and funnel cake, all supplied by Bahorel’s uncle who runs the county fair a few towns over. Most importantly, the university’s cheerleaders are coming to help out and perform. There would be a five dollar entry fee and people would pay as they played the games. All of the proceeds would help build an elementary school in Ethiopia…or something. In all honesty, Grantaire tuned out as soon as he heard about the cheerleaders.

The whole affair is set to begin at 3:30 on the dot, but Enjolras tells everyone to arrive at noon so they can set up everything. Grantaire, figuring that their leader is trying to be _too_ prepared, shows up promptly at 3:26. To his surprise, all he receives is a venomous glare from Enjolras, and though he’s received worse, he decides not to piss him off anymore. Wordlessly, Grantaire takes his position at the ring toss stand, right between Courfeyrac’s bumper cars and Feuilly’s face painting station. Though Grantaire might have to deal with snotty children in his job, he knows it could be worse. Joly had literally drawn the short straw and sealed his fate as the unfortunate subject for the dunk tank ( _How do we know where that water came from!? What if I get some in mouth!? Flesh-eating bacteria!_ he screeched.), and Bossuet, who somehow obtained the necessary training to operate the Ferris wheel, small as it is, could not contain his mirth about Joly’s reaction.

Fortunately, Grantaire realizes immediately, as if predestined by a merciful god, that the cheerleaders are stationed about thirty feet away (and they’re wearing their uniforms). They, and all interested carnival-goers, are participating in a hula-hooping contest. A particularly philanthropic alumni promised that he will donate five hundred dollars for every person still going after five minutes and an additional five hundred for anyone who continues after that in two-minute intervals. And the icing on the cake (as no one really cares about charity contests for the principle) is that the winner gets a new iPhone, also furnished by the generous alumni.

Enjolras opens the gates promptly at the appropriate time, and steps aside while swarms of college students, parents, and children flood inside. The soccer field, converted for this event with the administration’s permission, is a sea of moving bodies.

Near the cheerleaders, who hold their hula hoops in anticipation for the contest to begin, is a fragile stage with a microphone stand. A banner, reading “Carnival for Change” is pulled taut above the stage by two metal poles. Grantaire wants to laugh at the uncreative slogan, but it was Enjolras’s idea and it would be _UN_ -jolras to have anything else (ha-ha).

Enjolras ascends the rinky-dink steps to the stage and takes the microphone. He starts speaking, but Grantaire is torn between focusing on his words, his mouth, and the scantily-clad cheerleaders, so decides to split his attention between the latter two. (It is really just Enjolras thanking the sponsors and explaining the cause, after all. Nothing _too_ important.)

Given that most of the people are more interested in the actual rides than a crappy ring toss game, Grantaire finds his evening is pretty relaxing, and his view—immaculate.

 

Two hours into the festivities, it becomes clear to everyone that Enjolras is _frazzled_. There isn’t one cause in particular for this, but coordinating an event of this scale, though enormously successful, is draining. He just looks a little on-edge, Grantaire notes from his vantage point. He is leaning against the stage, chatting with Combeferre and absolutely _clutching_ a clipboard to his chest. Combeferre is turned away from Grantaire, so his expression is unknown, but whatever he’s saying is seemingly enough to placate the extraordinarily tense Enjolras. Eventually, with Combeferre’s guidance he sets the clipboard down and both walk over to the bin of hula hoops. Combeferre plucks two out with a now-visible smile and hands one to Enjolras, who looks hilariously skeptical, but takes it anyway.

They weave past the contestants, some of whom who have been going for almost twenty minutes, back to the stage. Once there, Combeferre steps comically into the hoop, making a show by lifting his feet way higher than necessary. He fails to get the hoop spinning for more than a few seconds at a time, but he succeeds at making Enjolras smile a little bit.

“C’mon!” Grantaire hears Combeferre through the crowd, shouting lightheartedly at his friend. “Remember grade school? You were a champion!”

Grantaire cannot hear Enjolras’s response, but sees that he’s smirking and a little unsure.

“C’mon!” Combeferre urges once more. Enjolras succumbs, against his better judgment, to the pressure.

Grantaire would laugh when he sees Enjolras begin to swish his hips if he weren’t so turned on all of a sudden. (Cheerleaders, who?) _Damn it, R!_ he curses to himself. _That shouldn’t be hot!_ _It’s about as sexy as hop-scotch—damn it!_ He knows that Enjolras could probably make that sexy too. And getting a root canal. Anything, really.

He looks like a professional belly dancer and the realization is making Grantaire’s mouth water. He watches with rapt attention as Enjolras’s hips jerk left and right gracefully (is that even possible!?) and his t-shirt (red, of course) rides up ever so slightly with the force of the twisting hoop. _Well,_ Grantaire ponders, _I need a cold shower_.

In the midst of deep concentration, Enjolras thrusts a hand into his hair and grinds his teeth against his bottom lip. _Oh, come on! He looks like a porn star! What the hell!?_

Grantaire has seriously had enough at this point. What’s he going to do next!? Tear off his shirt and rub tanning-oil over his naked chest? Deep throat a banana? Pull out a goddamn shake weight? It’s all unfair, Grantaire thinks.

To his extreme dismay, his undivided attention on Enjolras is at last torn away by the force of a plastic ring colliding with the side of his face. “Mister!” an irritating child squeaks.

Grantaire grinds his teeth together and scowls at the kid and his small group so hard it would make Enjolras proud.

“We wanna play!”

“Ring toss is closed,” Grantaire snarls and wrestles another ring from the boy, who was seconds away from throwing it again. “Respect your elders!” he squawks as the child and his friends turn to leave.

“I’m telling!” the boy yells.

Grantaire throws his arms out wide. “Oh yeah?” he challenges. “Who’re you gonna  tell?”

The kid cries out immediately, “Éponine!”

Grantaire’s eyes widen. “Shit,” he mutters, then abandons the stand at light speed, leaving everything including moneybox, which he retrieves only a second later—so Enjolras would not decapitate him. Grantaire wants to disappear because Éponine hangs around with their group sometimes and she is kind of hot and her boyfriend is a drug cartel or hit man or something. (Grantaire does not want to find out, lest he be whacked before nightfall.)

To Grantaire’s benefit, he is able to hide behind Bahorel’s Test-Your-Strength game and ultimately, has a better view from there of Enjolras, who is still gyrating his hips like Shakira. (He could probably go all night, bow-chicka-wow-wow.)

From this new position, the sight is _fantastic_ and Grantaire can’t help but feel that his eyes are like the north end of a magnet, drawn invisibly but powerfully to the south end of Enjolras (wink-wink). In all seriousness, Enjolras’s sway is actually hypnotizing. Back and forth, side to side, he rocks to the beat of a silent song (“Hips Don’t Lie”?), and Grantaire can actually _feel_ his own jeans getting tighter. A plethora of raunchy fantasies begin to cloud his head, but most involve Enjolras bouncing and writhing erratically in his lap while Grantaire nuzzles appreciatively at his neck, both of them racing toward the edge—

Enjolras just _stops_ a few moments later and though it is vexing in one respect (the beautiful sight will never, ever, ever happen again), it’s really a blessing in disguise. After all, it is not until then that Grantaire truly notices the extent of his “problem” (boner), and is able to dart to the nearest bathroom to “relieve” himself (masturbate) of that “problem” without feeling guilty about missing the magnificent show. He does just that, concealing his crotch behind a comically apropos corndog, snatched from Courfeyrac, on his way to restroom. He shouts a quick I.O.U over his shoulder, promising to reimburse his friend for his generous sacrifice. (The corndog, obviously, is not the most subtle solution, he realizes, but it was all he could find in four seconds.)

 

It isn’t until a few days later that the Amis are able to total all of the donations. They raise a whopping ten thousand dollars and Enjolras could not be happier. His uncharacteristically unshielded joy is contagious, and everyone begins to feel it too.

On the far side of the café, Grantaire is not completely impressed. He is still convinced that could have earned more if they had scrapped the carnival idea altogether and had Enjolras give lap dances instead.

(He’ll have to suggest it at the next meeting.)


End file.
